


peace in our time. (imagine that).

by romvnxvas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Hela (Marvel), BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jessica Drew is Underrated, Jessica Drew is a Little Shit, Loki (Marvel) Is A Little Shit, Loki (Marvel) Lives, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Morgan Stark is precious, Multi, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Pansexual Tony Stark, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Natasha Romanov, Romani Wanda Maximoff, SO MANY TAGS!!, Sam Wilson is So Done, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Shameless Smut, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Teen Peter Parker, Thor (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Underage - Freeform, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-10-26 13:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 15,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17746481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romvnxvas/pseuds/romvnxvas
Summary: bunch of drabbles and schmoops mainly consistent of the mcu characters. tags and relationships can and will be added as i see fit. some of them can be a bit ooc because oh well i can't deal with all these sorrowful troubled children.underage tag is for peter parker because he's siXTEEn people.anyways i take requests





	1. request dump.

**Author's Note:**

> oh would you look at that. it's an ooc (but not really bc comics/novels nat is a snarky lil shit) pwp nat smut! yay. 
> 
> trigger warning: it contains RENT The Musical references. you've been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> go stream bad dreams by scarjo you cowards

 This is the request page. I'll do honestly anything, except: lolicon, waterplay, knifeplay, rapekinks. 

 

 Everything else is fair game. BDSM... i like to read about it, but have never written it. still. id try my hand at it if anyone would like that.

 

 My tumblr is euteamo-milmilhoes and if want any quick blurbs or hcs for any mcu characters, you cna certainly hit me up there! (it's a big whole mess, but that's me)


	2. n.r— how many tiles are in a bathroom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh would you look at that. it's an ooc (but not really bc comics/novels nat is a snarky lil shit) pwp nat smut! yay.
> 
> trigger warning: it contains RENT The Musical references. you've been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> go stream bad dreams by scarjo you cowards

Birds are chirping and you can hear cars all the way up in the loft with the closed curtains, but it's not that, that actually wakes you up. No, it's the feather-like fingertips tracing your column and following the dip in your back, butterfly kisses scattering across your shoulders. Curved lips follow the silver cord of your necklace, brushing against your neck, and you can hear (and feel) a chuckle that escapes the woman behind you when goosebumps erupt at the touch.

"Nat," you say, voice heavy with sleep, "what're ya doin'?"

"Well, good morning."

"Mm."

The woman behind you laughs softly, long leg coming to rest between your own. There's a thin, silk sheet between you two, but she makes no move to dispose of it and neither does you, still somewhat sleeping. Her hair falls to brush your skin, open-mouthed kisses trailing up your neck and a hand sliding under the sheets and fingers framing your ribs. The hand pushes the fabric of your shirt up, deft, cold fingers sneaking inside to grasp a breast gently.

"Hey," you object, still sleep-hazed, even if a bit more awake with all the commotion, "I can barely move. Don't know'f i can do that now..."

"Well, then," her voice, deeper than usual and raspy from the night, breathes against the nape of your neck and soon follows the brush of her curved lips; "just let me do the work."

A whine escapes your lips at the fingertips that trap your nipple, rolling and pulling, and the whine chokes on a moan when teeth sink softly on the crook of your neck. There's a light pressure against your midriff and you turn on your back, soft lips immediately finding yours and your hand getting lost between heavy strands of hair.

Then there's nothing.

You open your eyes, blearily, to find Natasha grinning at you from the foot of the bed. She's tying her hair up, foot hitting the floor and she's still grinning from ear to ear at you.

"Good morning."

You groan, turning back on your stomach.

"Fuck you."

You hear her laugh, footsteps soft against the rug and directing to the small bathroom at your bedroom. "I would, but I actually have a job to go to."

You groan, hearing the door slam shut. Sighing into the pillow, you get up, coming to terms that you're definitely not coming back to sleep. On your way out of the room, the shower turns on.

The dorm is a large thing, but has the thinnest walls you've ever encountered. Which makes you happy your room neighbour wasn't sleeping home last night. In fact, you can practically hear the woman in your shower start to hum, all the way from the bathroom in your room.

Despite her claims to being late, when you enter your bedroom ten minutes later with a cup of coffee almost finished and pass by the door, Nat is humming. You smile. It's not a unusual thing, and her voice is one of the sweetest things you've ever heard, especially when she's singing beneath your shower. It's the song she decided to sing that makes you snort, already deciding the clothes for the day.

"... wouldn't you light my candle..."

You down the contents from your cup and open the door to the bathroom; the woman doesn't seem to notice, even when you start brushing your teeth.

"... I like it between my–"

"Ya know," you chirp, drying your mouth, "it's fucking ironic that you're singing that in the shower."

Natasha's laughter ecos in the tiles, and she's grinning when the glass door slides open.

"I wasn't talking about that kind of candle," she wiggles her eyebrows, a strand of hair getting loose from the bun when she tilts her head at you, "get in here."

You snort, stripping from the only piece of clothes you had bothered to put on (a shirt) and letting your girlfriend pull you by the wrist.

You sigh when her lips find your's, warm fingers framing your jaw and wet skin flushing against you. You can feel the other woman's smile, faint, before it's pressed against your neck. The hand by your cheek traces up the jaw and your ear, gently, fingers gripping the hair by your nape and pushing firmly. A low moan rumbles from the back of your throat, your head banging at the glass door as the woman herself pushes you against it.

You breath sharply, the cold seeping at your back and contrasting wildly against Natasha's warm skin flush against your front. The smile from her lips drop, free hand coming up to cradle a side of your neck; a thumb dips into the hole at your throat, tracing a pulsing vein before settling beneath your chin. A moan escapes you; her lips smile, teasingly, from where her teeth are nibbling on your collarbone.

A knee nudges your legs apart, coming up to rest between them. Your breath catches; the hand untagles from your hair and comes down to grab a hold of a breast, nipple trapped between fingers. Deft fingers, that pinch and twist, coaxing quick gasps and sharp moans out of you. She stops then, both hands coming up to clasp behind your neck and pushing you away from the sliding door and beneath the warm stream of water; goosebumps erupt in your skin, droplets falling between your mouths while she takes her time kissing you. Another moan, and this time you're sure it's her's because a content sigh follows, fingers from both hands burying between wet strands of hair and tugging gently.

Teeth scratches your lips, a tongue soothing the sting. Her hands fall to your shoulders, pushing you around and pulling you back against her, fingers gripping your jaw and exposing your neck to her mouth, another hand splaying at your hips; the glass doors bang against each other, noise echoing through the tiles when she pushes you against it and herself against you.

You bite your lip at the skirting touches sneaking down your thighs, fingertips retracing their way down your throat and coaxing a moan out of you. They trace your ribs, arm sneaking around the waist; her teeth provoke a red mark by your neck just as the hand by your thighs scratch the flesh, fingers finding your heat and burying themselves into you.

Her lips brush your earlobe, hot breath fawning over your cheek as her name echoes, her own moans following close behind. She picks up the pace; the arm around your waist tightens, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips; your own hands bang against the glass for support, her free hand kneads roughly a breast, nails leaving angry red marks.

The glass doors shakes; you come with her name at your lips and her mouth breathing out soft words against your cheek. Fingers grip your jaw gently, turning your head so your mouth meets her's.

She smiles. "Well the candle is lighten up alright."

You huff, pushing her away and then turning around, kissing her again just so to wipe off that smug smirk.


	3. j.d— if you know my sins will you still trust me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things I'm happy about: jessica drew in new avengers: the riot
> 
> things I'm angry about: how jessica drew was portrayed in new avengers: the riot
> 
>  
> 
> sigh. it's porn. there's no plot whatsoever.

You've known her since her first day at S.H.I.E.L.D. She's sullen and as grumpy as Director Hill (which is, considerely, a lot), and you still find it amusing that they paired her with Clint Barton of all people. It was one hell of a gamble: either she'd murder him on his sleep (which she definitely could), or they'd actually hit it off and be at least civil with each other.

They become surprisingly professional, and then tentative friends. You know it all about their relationship, because Clint was your partner until she came along. There was, sure enough, a bit of a bitter resentment about the change in your partnership, especially because the rookie they put you in charge of is, most of the time, begging to get his teeth punched. And you're not blind – Clint is deaf, sure, but he could also be absolutely blind to other people's feelings, even if they were in shining eyes and staring a bit too much at him.

You're not. You saw the way Jessica used to look at him.

Used is keyword. It was familiar; you were in her position, too, and while were you absolutely resigned to the fact that Clint would never be with you, there was still a pang of jealousy. Easy to say, you and the woman didn't got along for a very while.

Until that one faithful night.

It was late, but everyone at the agency were used to working odd hours. You've always been a night owl also, anyway, and preferred the night shift. Your back hurted from a mission gone wrong, there were stitches and a recovering concussion and you were on desk duty, because you're sure up to this day that Director Hill did that as more a punishment than anything else. She knew how restless you were.

You were in the archives room, on the basement, looking for an old file. Then Jessica was there, words suspiciously sounding like a truce were said and – it's hazy in your head right of this moment, and you can only remember the fact that she was leaning against a shelf one moment and then she was there and her hands on your hair, your pulse throbbing under smirking red lips.

Which brings you to the present.

Air escapes your lungs with a surprise sound when she sharply pulls you suddenly into a corridor, your back hitting a shelf and books and wood digging into your back. You groan at the feel, the uncomfortable position being pushed down your mind when fingertips traces your cheekbone to push a lock of hair away, leaning until your noses bump and breathes mix.

You can't keep the whimper down at the murmured words, staring back at her when pressure is made on your lips, fingers slipping inside your mouth. She shakes her head.

"Hush. Don't you know this is a public space?"

Instead of giving the snarky retort on the tip of your tongue, your teeth close lightly at her fingertips, watching as her smirk grows and lips find your cheek, wet kisses sliding down your jaw to the neck, a low moan muffled by the fingers on your mouth; you feel as the others run slowly from collarbones to breast, your back arching lightly as they brush against a nipple but don't come back, instead brushing then against skin exposed by the unbuttoned blouse. The waistband of the pencil skirt follows them as they pass down it, slapping back in place once the fingers let go to continue it's path down your leg.

Her teeth nibble the soft spot on your throat just as the running hand grip one of your knees, pushing the leg up and around her waist just the fingers on your mouth slip inside for complete, your body slamming back into books and wood, the shelf rattling against the wall lightly and muffling the moan as her body presses against yours. The hand holding your knee at her waist slids up, your leg falling to settle at her hip as the hand slip beneath the skirt, fingers gripping your ass tightly and ripping a loud muffled moan from you, eyes closing.

Lips rip away from your neck, surely leaving red and purple marks behind and she lifts her head up, the motion making your eyes fly open only to encounter her's dark blue ones. The change of color makes your breath hitch, leg clenching around her to push the body even closer as murmured words hit your skin:

"Be quiet."

You nod frantically, head banging softly at a book, but you barely notice as her fingers slip out of your mouth, fingertips against your tongue as they go with a pop sound. You only have time to catch enough breath before her own swollen lips are against yours, low moans mixing as both tongues met in a slow dance - your breath hitches in the middle of the kiss suddenly, surprised by the touch of the wet fingertips at your center, even if the touch was soft through the underwear - Jessica moans lowly against your lips, probably at the feel of the drenched cloth.

Fingertips glide up, pressing the bundle of nerves through the fabric - she groans as your only knee keeping you up buckles suddenly, your hands gripping her shoulders tightly and a surprised squeal escaping you, and her other hand grips your leg tightly once again, pulling the knee once again up to her waist and then pushing you up again against the wooden rattling shelf. You feel, still startled, as she shoves her tongue inside your mouth and the fingers slip inside your underwear, air escaping you once again as they enter you suddenly, no ceremony, your own fingers pulling on her dark locks to push her head back and take a much needed breath. She groans but doesn't bulge, still with her tongue inside your mouth and lips roughly against yours - she knows that if she slips just one second, the whole archives section will know what they're up to. The first time might've been at the dead of night, but right now it was lunch break.

She grunts as you keep trying to push her back as her fingers push even more deeper than before inside you, moans stopping at you throat and chest, whimpers coming out against her lips instead - the shelf rattles as she slams your body against it when you pull again and a startled, muffled gasp slip inside her mouth, your hands falling to her shoulders once again, giving up on pushing her away.

The fingers on your leg tightens, and you know, at the back of your hazy mind, that she's telling you hurry up, the fingers inside you adding one up and getting deeper, curling, heel of her hand bumping against your clit and finger stretching, going harder, deeper, harder, harder, harder, until your back arches into her, eyes rolling back into your skull and head bangs against books, and everything feels to be clenching and turning, spamming, and not even the tongue down your throat keeps the loud moan down.

You just regain your senses minutes after, when lips are touching your jaw and cheeks gently, hands massaging your thighs as you two sit on the ground, her body between her legs as you still are up against the shelf.

You roll your eyes at her smug smirk.

"Shut up."


	4. p.p— you're the glimmer in the darkness of my world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentioned age-gap between peter and reader, although nothing really happens besides the boy's massive crush. Still, Peter and Co. are depicted as 18yo in this.
> 
> also the trailer for Endgame shattered my heart but Natasha's looks in it mended it back up

 

 Peter Parker hates how every person who sees Aunt May for the first time  _has_ to seem baffled by how young and (he cringes just thinking of it) _hot_ she is.

 

 He can't look at his aunt and see her as anything other than Aunt May, his guardian in more than one way, the one who has always been there for him when he needed and when he (thought) he didn't. It hasn't always been sunshines and rainbows, sure – both have enough baggage,  _too_ much baggage if you ever asked any of the two, – but she was always there.

 

 Peter thinks that's part of why he became such good friends with Ned.

 

 — Dad left before I could actually remember him, — The boy shrugged, sprawled atop Peter's bed with all kind of junk food around, — It's just me and mom and my sis.

 

 A pained look crossed his face. He sighed, Peter remembers like yesterday, and twisted his sheets around his fist and fingers, straining them until Peter thought they would rip.

 

 — Just me and sis now I guess. — He mumbled.

 

 It was the day his mother passed away. Peter knew he had a mother and a sister, and although he never mentioned his dad, the boy never thought of asking. Ned always talked more about his sister, anyway.

 

 Peter is sure that was the day they became truly best friends. Peter told Ned about his parents, May's boyfriend who helped raise him with  _such_ love and how him too was took from Peter's life. Ned talked about how he never really meet his father and, although he never cared about it personally, he saw how much of a strain it was for his mother and sister. Told Peter about his mother's fragile health. And he told Peter about his sister.

 

 Ned could never shut up about his sister. Nine years older, more his mother than his actual mother could ever be. Always working. Always pulling extra hours. Odd jobs in the weekends. Half her money to medicine, other half for Ned so he would never know struggle like she did. More jobs and more hours and weekends on more jobs after his mother's passing.

 

 Ned could never hide the proud glimmer in his eyes while speaking of her.

 

 That's why it felt so  _awkward_ actually meeting her for the first time, after being friends with Ned for years.

 

 — She's actually working, — Ned says, grinning like the dork he is, — But it's close to her break hour so we can enjoy some lunch before.

 

 He pushes open a door to a bistro, a nice little corner store with tables outside and more lining up the glass walls inside. It's small but cozy, cream yellow walls and panels with prices written on it and a dark wood balcony.

 

 They get in line, and Ned is nearly jumping.

 

 — I recommend the grilled cheese.

 

 Peter snorts.

 

 — Really?

 

 — It's really good! And that has nothing to do with the fact it's her who makes them!

 

 Peter chuckles. The line walks, and they're soon in front of the balcony.

 

 A girl – nearly a woman, really, – suddenly reaches out from behind the wood and squeezes Ned so tight, Peter is worried a bit about his breath. They part, both of them sporting the same brighr grins, and the girl turns to stare at Peter.

 

 He can feel his cheeks getting warm, and kicks himself mentally. The girl was beautiful, all messy hair and red cheeks from the heat and she looked a bit out of breath – because of her work or the tight hug, the boy doesn't know and honestly doesn't care.

 

 — You must be Peter.

 

 She raises her eyebrows in a mocking gesture, still smiling, hands on the balcony while eyes look at him from his head to his feet and Peter has to remember to  _breath_ because she's speaking but he can't for the life of him listen to  _what_ she's saying _._

She stares. Still smiling, but looking at him funny now. Ned frowns at Peter and bumps their shoulders.

 

 Peter stammers and chuckles awkwardly.

 

 — Um... Thank you?

 

 The girl huffs a laugh, eyes crinkling a bit, and Peter shuffles on his spot. Ned frowns at him.

 

 — Dude. What...

 

 Ned's sister throws the rag on her shoulder at the balcony, and both boys turn to stare.

 

 — Well what about some grilled cheese?

 

 Peter fumbles for his wallet. Ned's sister wipes some crumbles from the counter, whips the cloth and then throws it on her shoulder again. 

 

 — It's on the house, Pete.

 

 She winks and goes off to a sink and oven in the back. Peter stammers and mindlessly follows his friend, wallet still in hands, his cheeks  _burning._

 

* * *

 

 Peter finds himself eating grilled cheeses almost every saturday. Oh, he still religiously frequents Mr. Delmar's shop because they are, for a fact, the best burguers on Queens. 

 

 Ned's sister makes the best grilled cheeses on Queen, though. Even if he most times can't stay at the bistro more than a few minutes, he always buys them for the trip.

 

 Today he's alone, and just this once it seems the neighborhood decided to be _peaceful._ He's just finishing his sandwich (and at the same time writing an essay on the laws of Newton, crumbles scattered around the paper) when his sense tingles and Peter sees  _her_  from the corner of his eyes, fast approaching.

 

 He tries his best to look casual.

 

 — Oof, I feel like I could sleep an entire week. — she exclaims, plopping down on the seat in front of the boy.

 

 Peter chuckles awkwardly, makes a half-second eye contact and stares at his paper intently, although he already forgor what he was writing.

 

 The boy isn't stupid. He knows what the warmth on his cheeks and the butterflies in his stomach meant, the way he stuttered and shuffled his feet whenever the girl – woman, – was just so much looking at him. It was the same with Liz.

 

 Peter refuses to acknowledge it. Despite the obvious age gap – she's Ned's  _sister_ , almost his damn mother in the way she acts. The boy already has enough headaches going around in his life.

 

 So just stuffs the last piece of sandwich in his mouth and scribbles furiously.

 

 A plate suddenly appears in his line of vision. He frowns. Looks up and immediately regrets because she's staring at him and there a smirk on her lips, nice looking and that seem so _soft_ and —

 

 — um.

 

 She chuckles.

 

 — This one's on me. You seem to be frying your brains.

 

 — U-um y-yeah, I mean. It's an essay. I was never really good at... Writing, y'now. So.

 

 She nods, pensive.

 

 — Nerd. Gimme here.

 

 And snatches his paper. She hums, eyes scanning the text. Grabs his pencil and writes something down, an arrow going from a circled sentence to note an observation.

 

 — There ya go.

 

 Peter raises his eyebrows.

 

 — Wow. Thank you. Really!

 

 She swats a hand in the air, an "aw, shucks" expression on her face. 

 

 — It's nothing, Pete. You ever need anymore help with papers, just drop by here or come home with Ned. I can give you some pointers.

 

 She winks and suddenly stands and Peter swallows  _hard_ because oh _God_ he has a crush on his best friend's sister.

 

 Peter Parker  _hates_ ironies and puberty.


	5. t.s— portable constellations and fresh laundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love anthony stark and if he dies at endgame i will sue marvel

 The room was dark, thanks to the cloudy weather of the morning, and not even the curtainless window helped much to illuminate the bedroom. Tony did not care. He liked dark corners, and was extremely comfortable in his place on the bed under the thick blankets.

 

 He took a deep breath. They smelled, as always, like fresh laundry and linen spray and _something_ else he just couldn't point his finger at, not ever.

  
 He felt something warm move over his back, fingers digging into his stomach. He covered the hand with his and turned slowly.

 Hair covered a large part of the younger woman's face, and the brunette gave a slight laugh through his nose with the image. The girl was in a sleep so deep that she did not move when the man pulled her hair away, approaching until their noses almost touched.

 She had exactly 14 dots scattered across her nose and the top of her cheeks. Tony had counted them the night before, quietly, in his mind. When he commented on the fact with the woman, she rolled her eyes and told him to go to sleep.

 She barely noticed the hand that covered her cheek, the finger that caressed the freckles. Distracted, however, he noticed the eyes that opened and already seemed to shine for him only after quite some time.

  
 "You, waking up early?" She yawned, the freckles dancing by the face that then buried itself in the pillow, "What a miracle."

 "Look who's talking."

 She snorted. He smiled, getting more comfortable around the girl; an arm pulled her close, circling beneath her slender shoulders, and a leg caught in place on her hips. Another hand found a path into the blue shirt and spread across her back. The woman grunted from her place on Tony's neck.

 "Tell me," the older man questioned, fingers digging into her hair, "Why are you so grumpy to me?"

 "I'm not grumpy!"

 "Oh, you aren't?"

 "No!"

 Tony laughed. She pushed him away, trying to free herself from the arms and legs that held her; unsuccessfully, gave up and let the older man pull her close again, frowning.

 

 "Can't believe you're an ass even in the crack of dawn." She mumbled, snuggling herself agaisnt his chest comfortably. 

 

 Tony snickered, and decided to let the comeback die on the tip of his tongue. His fingertips traced what he knew to be more freckles atop her shoulders and upper back, content.

 

 He loved parties. He loved his suits and he loved introducing his lover to his lifestyle, bring her to places she could never imagine, shower her with gifts and see her eyes shine bright at all the sights and lights.

 

  Loves her dot-splattered skin, her frowning eyebrows and crinkling forehead, whenever she's distressed or annoyed at him. He learnt to love her tiny loft. The bedsheets and duvets smelling fresh and so becoming, so sleep-inducing — Tony only sleeps well whenever he's beneath them, smelling fresh laundry and that extra _something_ he has come to associate to his lover.

 

 Sleep overcomes him easily, and the last thing he remembers thinking is that a few more hours in bed is worth the sermon about  tardiness Rogers is sure to give him


	6. n.r— the baggage's heavy, but the view's worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a soft nat drabble because im watching endgame tomorrow and I'll be crYINg for dAys i can already see it

 

_Meet me at the docks, by 3pm._

_You know, when we agreeded to a less lavish date, I didn't expected to have lunch smelling the pollution._

_Don't be a smartass, and do as I say._

_It will be quite nice. I promise._

 

 

You sigh, pocketing the phone and crossing your arms. You really didn't expected _Natasha_ to text you to meet  _her_ by the  _docks,_ to lunch nevertheless; in fact, it's still funny, to think of her name on the same sentence of the word "docks".

 

 You look at the two sides of the street, trucks passing by but no sign of a car. It's not that she's late, but you're early: it came as a pleasant surprise, to discover that Natasha's not late, not ever. When enquired, she once said that what most call "fashionably late" she simply calls rudeness. (You're also pretty sure that was a jab at Tony's dispositions to the dramatics).

 

 A car stops in front of the sidewalk, interrupting your thoughts. There, smiling that quirk of lips, is the woman in question. She nods once, and you're quick to enter the silver car smelling of diffuser and leather.

 

 "I don't think there's any hot dog stands that won't give us the predisposition to a heart attack here."

 

 She laughs, green eyes crinkling slightly. "Don't worry. I know where we're going."

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 It stands out like a sore thumb. An overly coloured thumb, with the image of an ice cream ball eating itself. It brings the smell of sweet and the sound of happy chatter out of the ajar door, and also distant memories. So distant, you don't even notice the woman until she's quirking an eyebrow at you through the window of the car, hands tucked inside the brown jacket. Quickly, you step onto the sidewalk and walk alongside the woman to inside the establishment.

 

 The a/c is on, and the chatter is louder now. The old lady that goes by Nana smiles brightly at you from behind the counter, and you quietly hope she doesn't call out your name. 

 

 She does worst, and serves the order you used to always ask. Natasha, in front of you at the booth, only raises her eyebrows and turns to make her own order.

 

 It's quiet, then, even with the children playing and their parents chattering.

 

 "So," she says, "you come here often?"

 

 Sheepishly, you smile. "Only when you're around."

 

 Despite her indignant expression, you still catch the small quirk of her lips. She waves to the bowl of ice cream in front of you, still untouched.

 

 "Ah. Right. Well... Not really." Her eyebrows raise, and you catch ahold of the plastic spoon if only to occupy yourself with something, "I mean, I– I used to. It's been sometime, though. I don't really come... here, often, nowadays."

 

 You stuff your mouth with ice cream, mainly to stop your tongue from moving anymore. You can feel her gaze, even when Nana sets her order on the table and the rustle of the plastic spoon being unwrapped sounds. From the window, you can see a ship gliding over the waters.

 

 "I'm sorry."

 

 You frown, turning to stare at the woman. Even with children running as a background, she seemed elegant as ever, even if her eyes were cast downwards to the bowl.

 

 "For what?"

 

 "For making it uncomfortable once again. You clearly don't feel very good here. I just–", she sticks the spoon on a ball of vanilla ice cream, fingers interlocked and cradling a delicate chin, "It's been... quite sometime since I last did any of... this." She waves a hand, distractedly.

 

 "What, eat ice cream?"

 

 It's perhaps the first time you see Natasha roll her eyes, her gaze strong but not any less kind. "You know what I'm talking about. And I know it's no excuse, and that I should try and be... better. Stop making you uncomfortable, when you yourself make me feel good with no issues."

 

 You pause, mimicking her pose. Except, less gracefully, even if on purpose just to draw her attention away from the window.

 

 "You are good to me. It's not because I'm a mess of heavy baggage that you're doing anything wrong. Also," you scoop the last of the sweet, now mainly melted, "it's good ice cream." Her lips, before thinned in worry, relaxes. One side twitches in a small smile. "And the view's great, too."

 

 Natasha notices you're not talking about the vista, per se, and the quirk on her lips turns to a full smile.

 

 "You're impossible."

 

 "I try."

 

 

 


	7. c.b— breakfast (is the most important meal).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i canT SLeep i'll cackle like a maniac when thanos dIes 
> 
> heres a smutty drabble requested by the cutie YamiShirazaki. also clint. yeah. he's definetely the type of man my bi ass is definetely attracted to. 
> 
> also i have no idea of what to do with a penis. so i improvised. ya knwo the saying... we kick names and take ass

 The first thing you feel when you wake up is the height settled on your back. The second one makes your eyes shut close once again, lips kissing lazily shoulders and neck.

 "Babe," he rumbles out, nose diving through your hair and body stretching above yours, "wake up."

 You don't dare to open your eyes, keeping still as lips goes back to your shoulders and hands slid beneath the pillow, calloused, agile fingers grasping and tangling with yours.

 Your waist arch lightly when the lips descend, kissing your back as the hands slid down your arms to settle on the shoulders and squeezing them lightly, a purr going out your throat at the feeling.

 "I know you're awake," he goes back up, teeth nibbling your ear and ripping a hum of approval, "get up so we can have coffee and then fuck slowly on the couch."

 Goosebumps appear on your skin at his words and you turn your head to the pillow, hiding the smile. Not surprising, althought the blunt way Clint always speaks does still manage to make you fluster. Clint's lips goes straight to the exposed skin, kissing and occasionally sucking lightly the skin of your jaw and neck. Minutes pass of him trying to make you get up, until you hear as he growls against your ear.

 "Looks like we'll skip coffee, then."

 You whimper when the blanket is yanked away, your bare body shivering at the cold. You tremble as soon as you feel hot hands settling on your ass, low moan hitting muffled the pillow when his lips find the back of your thighs, nibbling. A sigh makes its way out when the lips kiss lightly your center, arching your hips up as to try make the contact more forceful – his hands push you back down, however, another whimper erupting as he restrains your movements.

 Your back arch and fingers grip the mattress tightly as soon as you feel the tip of a tongue running up your folds, rough hands scratching up and down your back and letting goosebumps behind. Another moan is muffled as his lips close around, sucking and humming, vibrations making your body tremble. A strangled moan is also muffled as the tongue buries inside you suddenly, and you can feel his head moving left and right, hands gripping the flesh of your ass once again, and the moan against your sex makes your breath hitch and nails dig through the mattress, hips buckling against Clint's face.

 Your breath hitches once again when his hands grab your thighs and flip you around, suddenly, hand flying to his head as he wastes no time in latching once again to you. Hands force your legs open as they close around his head tightly, and, in the back of your hazy mind, you're pretty sure marks of his fingers would be there later.

 A strangled moan of his name flies out of your mouth as the tongue slid inside you, his own moan making your body tremble again, and your hand tighten at brown locks, pushing him closer, his nose bumping with your clit and making your back arch.

 The tongue slids out, lips quickly closing around the bundle and sucks it, your hips buckling and legs clenching, fighting against forceful hands to close around his head. Teeth tugs the bundle as he looks up, dark blue eyes locking with glossy ones, and his hands push you down against his face by your thighs as the tongue slids back inside, nose bumping once again against the clit, and it's all it takes to make your back arch and head to be thrown back on the pillows, strangled cry of the Hawkeye's name flying out of your lips as he grunts, a jolt making your body jump as you push his hair forcefully.

 You come back from the high to feel wet, swollen lips on your thighs, fingers dancing lazily on your legs. You look down to see his head resting against one of your thighs, smirk gracing his lips when your eyes lock.

 "Good morning, beautiful."


	8. n.r— they about to see us shine 'cause we're golden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. I watched endgame. im still in shock, and definetelu mourninf and very much so a mix of feelings that border on sadness but also nostalgia? everyone's ending arc was so beautiful and sad and marvek why did you hurt me? marvek why did you made my children suffer sk much? i am — i am coping
> 
> so watch me cope with endgame by completely ignoring it and writing tooth-rotting nat fluff, because she definitely does not deserve this fucking cruel world

 You groan, body rolling around the cold bed, looking for Natasha, but failing once you realize she isn't here.

 

 You open your eyes, the dull glowing of the rainy morning illuminating the room and making you groan once more.  _When will she learn to not open the fucking windows?_

 

 Sighing, you disentangle from the blankets and sheets, shivering when the cold breeze hit your poorly-clad body and you're quick to snatch a blanket and drape it over your body. Then drag yourself out of the room and into the kitchen, following the scent of fresh coffee and encountering your girlfriend standing in front of the balcony chewing on a sandwich, underwear making a poor attempt at covering her up.

 

 She turns her head, smiling once she finds you stand at the doorway and you scout closer, the woman snatching a part of the blanket and getting comfortable under it, snuggling close when you take a sit next to her. You notice a croissant in front of you, and soon is stuffing your mouth witht the bread, letting a moan fall at the taste.

 

 Nat chuckles, and you turn your head to look at her, still chewing on the mouth full of croissant. Her eyes lock with yours, glowing in adoration, and your heart flutters when her lips curl in a small, shy smile. She looks in her own world while staring at you, and you can feel a blush crawling up your skin as you turn your head back, stuffing more croissant in your mouth.

 

 "God, how I love you."

 

 This time, your lips curl upwards in a shy smile, while you still chew on the bread.

 

 "Marry me."

 

 You choke on the croissant. Snapping your head, you see the woman has the smile gone, mouth instead agape in shock and eyes widened. You realize she probably wasn't planning on thinking it out loud.

 

 You watch as she blinks for several minutes, until her mouth closes and eyes drop to the balcony. Her lips form a shy smile once again.

 

 "I'm sorry. I wasn't planning on doing it like this, and I don't even have a ring right now or even a speech for that matters, but..." She shakes her head, looking up to lock her eyes with yours, and you heart stops completely now. "I love you. I wanna spend the rest of my life with you, buy a cliché house with a big yard, have mini Y/Ns running around and annoying us for years, to embarrass them in front of their friends and lovers, to grow old and be those wrinkly couples, and just..." she shakes her head again, scooting closer and taking the croissant out of your hands to interlock her fingers with yours. "I just want you. For the rest of my life."

 

 You can feel tears damping your eyes, and it takes you out of your stupor. Nodding, you breath a laugh out, and you watch as her eyes snap back, also tearing up.

 

 "Yes."

 

 "Yes?"

 

 "Yes."

 

 A grin erupts in her face, her body crashing against yours suddenly and both of your laughters echoing through the kitchen. The smiles doesn't leave both your lips even you kiss.

 

 She stands up suddenly, and you watch as she runs to a cabinet in the corner, digging around and coming back. She takes your hand, resting it in her lap and you watch as she opens the yellow marker. Her face is serious in concentration as she paints on your ring finger.

 

"I'll buy you a ring. I promise. For now, this will do."

 

 Your heart flutters as you look at the ring drawing at your finger.


	9. n.r— i used to have nothing,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooooooo yes it's another natasha oneshot. i have no regrets.

 The first time you see her it's just a bit after midnight.

 

 Papers from college are scattered through the living room, your notebook lit up with an image of the cardiac system that you're sure will haunt your dreams, what with the big exam coming up. You're emptying a bag of chips when you hear a heavy thud and then a door shaking.

 

 You sigh. It's probably Ana from the ground floor again or that one kid who always comes home wasted and forgets which is his actual door. You reluctantly pick up your (only) battered fry pan and head out, tired and done with your apartment complex.

 

 You step two times before noticing the couple of boxes neatly organized against a wall. You must be dreaming, of course, because there's a redhead that's absolutely fucking  _stunning_ standing right in the middle of your run-down apartment hallway. 

 

 You realize late enough, when she turns her head to inspect your lack of vanity (in your defense, it  _is_ the late night), that she is not a dream. One of her eyebrows twitch at the sight of your worn _star wars_ shirt and the frying pan at your hand, hums indiferently and goes back to rattling her keys into the keyhole.

 

 You shuffle.

 

 "There's a trick."

 

 The redhead stops. She looks at you out of the corner of her eyes, face impassive.

 

 "It's a malfuction in the whole building. You need to wiggle the key a bit to the left, turn the handle and then push the door inward. Here, i'll show yo-"

 

 "I got it."

 

 You stop in your tracks. Frowning, you stare at the stranger. She ignores you, managing to open up her door and stacking one box atop the other, then kicking her door gently with a foot.

 

 You stand there. In the middle of your hallway, at 1am, holding a fry pan, and confused as hell.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 You are, in some inexplicably way, heaving your books and bike up the stairs, dripping with the sudden heatwave that is NYC. You stop as the first staircase ends and sigh tiredly, staring at one more stairway you need to climb.

 

 You're about go start your trek again when your neighbor appears, a gym bag on one shoulder and backpack on another. She barely acknowledges your figure, passing straight through.

 

 Groaning, you heave you bike up the first step.

 

 "Want help?"

 

 You look over your shoulder, surprised. There she is, refusing to look at your eyes as always, a hand holding the strap of her gym bag. You are surprised to find her talking to you, though. You know she and Ana talk, sometimes — or, more likely, Ana talks to her. Or maybe complains about the cat; you know for a fact that the woman doesn't like felines, and the redhead has been feeding the black cat on such a regular basis that he's sticking around the neighborhood. It drives Ana mad, especially since the cat meows and grumbles at you neighbor's door almost every night when she's not home.

 

 Which is, for a fact, almost always.

 

 "Um." You stammer, shifting the books on your arm, "I-If you could, I mean – if it's not any trouble—"

 

 "I wouldn't be asking if it was."

 

 "Right," You take a deep breath.  _Breathe,_ you tell yourself,  _and for God's sake, don't you blush._ "Here, take my books. They're not that heavy, but they're a bit hard to carry with my bike."

 

 "The bicycle's heavier."

 

 You stammer a bit more.  _Nice going, you fucking nerd._

 "I'm used to it, really. Also you have your bags, so..."

 

 You think you see a ghost of a smirk, but then it's gone, and she's marching your way with her bags thumping onto the ciment floor and oh– oh gods, she's carrying your bike effortlessly up the stairs, uncovered arms flexing under the strain and—

 

 You definitely did  _not_ stare at the shifting muscles on her back. 

 

 She looks at you over her shoulder when realizing you're not following, lifting an eyebrow.

 

 You nod, awkwardly, and skip up the steps. She falls into step next to you, accompanying you until you arrive at the apartment door. You clear your throat. 

 

 "Thank you."

 

 She nods, still refusing to look you in the eyes. A beat passes.

 

 "Are you not gonna open the door? I did said this is heavy."

 

 "Oh. You don't have to—" Stuttering, you wiggle the key into the keyhole, "You already helped me enough, seriously. You can just leave her in the hallway, I'll come back for it later."

 

 "It's probably not gonna be here later."

 

 You don't mention she left her bags at the staircase. Instead, you kick the door open and try to keep the warmth away from your face. Your neighbor follows you, although she does not look around. Somehow, that makes you smile. She's standing inside your apartment, your bike on her right shoulder, but the redhead is trying not to pry in something that she clearly considers private.

 

 She looks at you. Or somewhere on your face. Your books thump heavily atop your coffee desk, and your keys follow quickly.

 

 "You can put her there." You point to the wall next to the door, and the redhead does just as you said.

 

 She stands there, stuffing her hands inside the jeans. You shuffle.

 

 "Want a coffee?" The warmth comes back.  _What is this? Chaves? You moron._ "O-or water?"

 

 The woman hesitates. "I accept the later."

 

 You nod. The water is not filtered, of course, but the woman must know it – she is, after all, your neighbor.

 

 It's cold, at least. 

 

 She deliberately steps up to your counter, accepting the glass you extend from the other side. She takes a sip and looks at the picture frame that's atop it. 

 

 "Who's the blonde?"

 

 You look at it, arms crossing on the counter. The picture shows a small boy, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile bright to the camera. You smile back, chest tightening.

 

 "My brother."

 

 She finishes the drink. "He looks like you."

 

 Your smile brightens, voice a bit quieter. "Thank you. I was fourteen when he was born. Always felt more like his mom than sister."

 

 The redhead tilts her head, slighter. "Oh?"

 

 You take the cup, bringing it to the sink. "It was me and mom for a while. I helped her how I could."

 

 The neighbor nods, pensive.

 

 "You're in college, then?"

 

 You finish drying the cup and store it inside the drawer atop the kitchen. You cross your arms, hips resting against the sink. A nod.

 

 "Nursing."

 

 She smiles. It's a quirk of her lips, really, but it still unties the knot that had formed inside your chest. You let out a breath.

 

 "You?"

 

 She lifts her eyebrows. "Consulting. It's not as exciting as it seems."

 

 "You're always traveling, though."

 

 A shrug of her shoulders. "It gets tiring after a while. Speaking of which," She looks at the watch on her wrist, standing up from the stool, "My flight is due in a few hours. Traffic, you know..."

 

 You nod, accompanying the neighbor to your door. You stop, resting against the open worn wood, and take a breath.

 

 "Hey. I know it may seem awkward since we just talked but I– I never really did catch your name."

 

 The redhead crosses the door and turns a bit, smirking. "I never gave it to you." She stuffs her hands on her pockets again, smirk fading. "It's Natasha."

 

 You smile. "Thank you, Natasha."

 

 "It was no problem."

 

 "Good travels."

 

 A nod, and she's gone. You close the door and look at the picture of your brother, chest tightening again and hands shaking tightly around the frame.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 The next time, she's got bruises and cuts and it's the dead of the night, and you're sure she didn't expected anyone to see her like that. Maybe she thought everyone would be sleeping at four A.M.

 

 Nurses don't sleep.

 

 The look of surprise she gives you tells enough of it. It's brief, a widening of her eyes and there's this muscle at her jaw that tightens, but that's gone in less than three seconds. It's enough time for you, though.

 

 She tries her hardest to pretend you're not staring at her, planted in the last step and holding on to the rail, still in your scrubs.

 

 "Wha– Natasha," You whisper, "What happened?!"

 

 She takes a sharp breath.

 

 "It was nothing."

 

 "Fucking bullshit!" You hold your breath, hearing Ana's husband groaning downstairs. Quickly, you're approaching the redhead. "You've got a split lip and an open wound on your arm, and that's what I can  _see._ "

 

 She sighs, keys rattling forcefully.

 

 "Don't ignore me!"

 

 She rolls her eyes, a slight huff.

 

 Maybe it's the fact you're awaken since 7pm of the last night. Or, as your therapist would say, your troublemaking impulsiveness. Lack of fear from dangerous things. You catch the redhead's arm and drag her to your own flat.

 

 Reluctantly she follows, although you  _can_ feel her glare at the back of your head.

 

 You tell her to sit on the couch but when you come back from the bathroom, first-aid kit in hands, she's perched on the same stool she was the last time. Huffing, you forcefully put the kit atop the counter.

 

 She refuses to look at you. Even when you say she needs stitches on what is appearing to be a _sword cut_ on her arm (yes you know what a sword cut looks like. You're an overworked and underpaid intern-nurse in New York, where the most strange thing you had to deal with was injuries caused by  _aliens)._ She doesn't flinch at the needle, either. 

 

 The redhead is still staring at your counter when you finish covering the stitches. You can see the start of a bruise snaking up her shoulder, big purple dissapearing inside her tanktop. Absently, you trace it.

 

 A sharp intake of air, and you snap your hand back. She turns to look at you, for the first time looking in your eyes. This time, you can't bring yourself to look into her eyes.

 

 There's a purple shade starting to form at the corner of her lips, and you get up quickly to grab ice. She holds the cubes inside a towel against her mouth, watching as you retreat to your room to change clothes.

 

 Her swollen lips quirk at your _star wars_ shirt. You roll your eyes.

 

 "Okay," You say, stopping in front of her, "The hell happened?"

 

 Her eyes drop, amusement gone. Her eyebrows quirk.

 

 "Some punks tried to rob me."

 

 Your chest tightens, that familiar feeling crawling up your spine. "So you decided to fight back, because that always work."

 

 She huffs. "I can handle myself."

 

 "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I think it's the fact you've got a swollen mouth that has been punched several times, but I can't hear you straight."

 

 She sighs, tired. You're tired too, but are used to it. Wringing your hands, you round the counter and put water to boil, fetching the coffee grounds from the counter.

 

 You can feel her eyes on you. Somehow, it was easier when she tried not to look at you. 

 

 "What happened to your brother?"

 

 Your fingers tighten around the pan handle, and you finish pouring the water over the coffee. The smell permeates the air, and you breath deeply.

 

 You brace yourself against the sink.

 

 "What do you mean?"

 

 "I've seen how uncomfortable you seemed talking about him that day."

 

 A minute passes. The coffee is ready and you're sliding a cup to the woman and sitting on the barstool across the counter, your own cup warming up your hands. It was a cold night. You hesitate.

 

 "He always liked superheroes, you know." You say, staring at the drink. A thumb traces the mug rim. Natasha watches, intently. "Especially Iron Man. Not Iron Man, actually, but Tony Stark. While all the other kids were crazy about Captain America or Thor – he loved Tony Stark. He was so smart. Quick to learn. Loved to learn, actually."

 

 You heave a breath out, sipping the hot drink to swallow down the lump in your throat. You refuse to look the woman in the eyes.

 

 "An year ago, I had just grabbed my diploma as an auxiliary nurse and decided to volunteer in South Africa. He missed me, so I bought him a plane ticket to come and visit and to see the city I was staying in."

 

 Tears well up in your eyes. Peripherally, you see her fingers twitch towards you.

 

 "It was not your fault."

 

 You look up. She's staring intently, her own eyes soft and unguarded.

 

 "I know. It's that freak's fault."

 

 She swallows, looking down. 

 

 Minutes that feel like hours pass. You sigh, the lump dissapearing and chest untightening. 

 

 "You should stay the night."

 

 Natasha looks up, frowning. "Thank you, but it's not necessary."

 

 "This is Little Ukraine. Whoever tried to  _rob_ you may come back and do worse this time."

 

 "I already said I can handle myself."

 

 "Please," you beg, "At least do it for my mental health?"

 

 She looks at you, green eyes strange and unreadable. She huffs.

 

 "Okay. I'll sleep on the couch."

 

 "Damn right you will."

 

 She chuckles, hissing as the movement stretches bruises and cuts non-cared for.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 You don't bat an eye when she shows up with an arm broken.

 

 "I'm not even gonna ask," you say, letting her and her cat in your apartment, "I know you'll just lie to me like always."

 

 She huffs a laugh out. Liho springs up on the stool she normally sits on, and Natasha glares at him.

 

 "Fat."

 

 "That's your fault."

 

 She gasps. You smirk, sitting on the couch. Tapping on it, inviting her over. She smiles and takes the invitation.

 

 It had come as a surprise how easy it was to be around her after a while. She's still almost always gone, sure – but she makes sure to always check in with you as soon as she gets back from her trips. It's almost comically how she tries to fix herself up before seeing you, even if bruises and cuts are scattered all over.

 

 Liho meows and climbs into her lap. She smiles, softly, and runs a finger on his chin. The black cat purrs and twists his head against her palm.

 

 Natasha is a quiet person. This day, however, she seemed more than usual, sticking to Liho while you walk around the apartment. She's nursing a cup of chamomile tea, eyes downcast at her broken arm, when you pass by the sofa and behind the balcony of the kitchen.

 

 "I need to tell you something."

 

 You glance at her from the shoulder, lifting an eyebrow.

 

 "Hm?"

 

 There's silence. You wait. When you turn, she's staring at the tea and her lips are ajar. They tremble a bit when she swallows, a muscle in her jaw ticking.

 

 "I know, Nat."

 

 Her eyes move to yours, wide and surprised, so green you feel a bit of vertigo even with the distance between. She takes a deep breath.

 

 "You do? I thought—" she swallows again, eyebrows furrowing and fingers tight against the cup. She avoids eye contact.

 

 "I mean... You did leaked you own records a few years ago, y'know?"

 

 "They were encrypted."

 

 "Yeah, and I do pay my internet bills." You put your palms against the balcony, head tipping, "Also, there was this picture you show behind Captain America. It was blurred, but seriously– being a redhead isn't really a smart spy thing."

 

 She laughs, and it's obviously forced. Her eyes are still wide, voice strained, fingers stark white.

 

 "Nat." You say after a while, quietly. She tips her head in your direction, eyes still downcast. "Why do you keep coming here? You know... You know how I— I told you what happened to my brother."

 

 "Well, why did you keep accepting me back after discovering?"

 

 The reply is quick, almost reflex and spoken so forcefully even Natasha winces a bit at the tone. You both know she's trying to evade the question.

 

 You shrug.

 

 "It took some adjusting, and a lot of sleepless night, to be honest. But I... I started reading on people who were saved. Their feelings. What would have happened if The Avengers weren't there, taking risks to themselves and those around. It still hurts, of course. But I know you guys try your best. Sometimes that's all we can do." You sigh. 

 

 "So, your turn. Say it."

 

 She sighs forcefully, eyes rolling to the roof before passing by the books scattered on the counter before settling on Liho, sleeping on the stool.

 

 "I used to have nothing," She starts, voice quiet, strained. So uncommon to her. "Then I got this family. They're a part of my life now and I would do  _anything_ for any of them but they're— they're not really mine. Tony's got Pepper, Wanda and Vision look like going somewhere. Steve's still after his friend. Clint is retiring. And I— when I'm not with them, what do I have?"

 

 "Me."

 

 Her eyes focus to yours, mouth twitching a bit in a smile, even though her eyes are glittering. She exhales shakily, looking away once more. 

 

 A beat passes. She looks up only when you kneel in front of the couch and you're then pushing her to you, her arm tight and fingers gripping your back so tightly you're sure she'll leave marks.

 

 You pretend to have not heard the strained sob.

 

 "Thank you," she says, "thank you."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. n.r— stay alive, stay alive (for me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CONTAINS HUGE ENDGAME SPOILERS. angst at first, but happy-ish at the end. 
> 
> i was listening to the radio and truce came on and i became so  
> s o f t
> 
> i love nat. jesus christ. she deserved better than that shitty end to her arc. marvel, give me my girl a chance to be happy, you motherfu

 

* * *

 

 When Clint tells you, you refuse to believe it. Sure, yeah. You believe you were dusted. Five years passed. 2018 was just five minutes before for you, but now it's 2023. Stranger things have happened, and you've learned to not doubt anything ever again when aliens invaded New York and you were suddenly patching up victims with  _alien wounds._

 What you refuse to believe is that Natasha is gone. You don't doubt she'd sacrifice herself at the first opportunity she got if it meant everyone is saved. If you came back. And it hurts. It hurts for you to think she'd thought you could ever be okay in a world without her.

 

 Clint tells you of Tony's sacrifice, too. Your Tony. Your best friend since he was, what? 14 years old? You still remeber that smug prebuscent challenging you to keep up, you being almost five years his senior not stopping the Stark boy. It only adds more salt to the wound. 

 

 For a while, you wake up expecting to hear your phone ring and her face to show up on the screen, that one picture you took of her and a chubby Nathaniel, their cheeks squished against each other. Three months passes. Then four. You barely leave the apartment, and Pepper and the rest of the team rile up so you move in with her and Morgan.

 

 There's so much Tony in Morgan, you can barely maintain eye contact with the girl for a couple weeks.

 

 Ten months, and you erase his contact. Eleven and a half, you erase her's, too. Twelve months and you go back to the hospital. You spend the New Year's Eve working.

 

 Thirteen months and you hear on the grapevine Thor's back with his cluster of friends. The same day, Clint calls you and says you're needed urgently at the compound and that Happy's on his way.

 

 It's a flurry of activity. Your breath quickens. You stuff your hands down the pockets in your long coat to keep them from shaking. It's never a good sign when the people here are this frantic.

 

 "Hey."

 

 You turn. Sam stands there, looking at you with those gentle and soft eyes only he can do. Your breath slows. Smiling the slightest, you nod in his direction.

 

 "What's happened? It's— it's been quite a whi— Clint told me it's been peaceful this couple months. And what's he doing here, anyway?"

 

 Sam exhales. He motions further indoors, and you've no choice but to follow him. You realize he's heading towards the infirmary. Your breath quickens again, anxiety making you grab at the fabric inside the pockets. 

 

 "It was."

 

 Clint stands, slouched next to a door. His arms are crossed, hand covering his lower face. He stares at the door. 

 

 His eyes snap to yours the moment you stop near him. You can see the shock.

 

 Your whole body trembles now.

 

 "What's going on?!"

 

 Clint, still in his position, tips his head towards the door. You sigh. 

 

 The room is a familiar place. The odor is that almost way too clean of hospitals, the beeping of monitoring machines echoing constantly. Somewhere in your brain, the unconscious part that is already etched into your professional persona, screams that the beep is not as constant as it should be.

 

 You ignore it.

 

 You ignore it, because laying there, thin and as pale as the walls, is Natasha. 

 

 Your Natasha.

 

 You suddenly understand Clint, because you can't move.

 

 She looks dead as dead can be.

 

 But the cardio monitoring is beeping, her chest rises and falls just the slightest, and she's frowning. 

 

 You don't even know when you ended up sitting on the recliner next to the bed. She's obviously sleeping, and it's obviously not comfortable, because there's a rasp in her chest and she coughs into the O2 Mask. 

 

 Sam is in the door way. He watches you try and touch her, but you can't, because what  _if this is dream like all the others and the moment I touch her she shatters?_ Your hands hover over her arm, her chest, the pale face with deep pockets beneath eyes and cracked lips. Your fingers press tightly to your own, eyes brimming.

 

 "How?"

 

 Sam sighs. He looks tired. Hands deep into his pockets, he shrugs.

 

 "It's mere speculation. Thor said she was on Vormir, mumbling Steve's name. We think that when he placed the stone back, the deal was off and she came back."

 

 You exhale shakily.

 

 "A soul for a soul."

 

 Sam nods. "She was there since 2014, it seems."

 

You touch her gingerly, fingertips pressing a pulse in her fist. It's barely there. But it  _is_ there _._

Clint's arms go around your shoulders when you sob, and you stay there, fingertips pressing her pulse and a hand in one of his arms.

 

  _Bless Steve_ , you pray, _Bless Steve and his big, stupid heart._

 

 


	11. w.m— shining like gun metal, cold and unsure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone needs to make me sTOp writing nat, this was a nat drabble, jfc

 Wanda doesn't open her eyes when she wakes up. Instead, she stays right the way she is – laying on her stomach, arms beneath the pillow her head rests heavily and hair falling freely to her face and back.

 

 She's almost going back to sleep when a scratch sound is made, waking the woman up. Frowning, Wanda listens carefully, and the sound is made once again, sounding close. She opens her eyes when someone sighs, encountering with her girlfriend sitting perched on a table across the bed, hunched over something covered by her hair. She looks up, at Wanda, cheeks turning red when their gazes lock, her lips curling upward in a smile as she gives one back.

 

 Stretching on the bed, the woman kicks the sheets off her legs and walk to the the girl on the table, eyes raking through the pens and wet chalks on the table to the notepad sitting on her lap.

 

 She raises her eyebrows to the unfinished watercolor drawing, the feminine silhouette laying on a colorful messy bed. She smiles cheekily at Wanda when she looks up at her, eyebrows raised and a smile gracing her lips.

 

 "Sorry," She mumbles, brushing her paint-dirty fingers on a marked rag, "I just had to... capture the moment someway. You sleeping naked on my bed on the morning is an art vision."

 

 Wanda shakes her head, staring down at the drawing with red cheeks of herself.

 

 "I'm not an art painting. I have flaws, and arts aren't supposed to."

 

 "Do you know why Picasso is one of the best painters there is?" Wanda frowns, looking up at the serious expression in front of her, "Because even his works had flaws. Everything has flaws, Wanda, humans and objects and music, dogs, pictures. Art. That's what makes them beautiful. It's not the perfection– it's the fact that even with all those flaws, they're still beautiful to look at. You don't look nice– you look like art, and art isn't supposed to look nice, it's supposed to make you feel something."

 

 Wanda smiles, fingers turning pages full of different types of drawings but always focused on some type of silhouette - feminine, male, animal, creature, instrument, views.

 

 She releases a shaky breath, resting the notepad on the table and feels as lips connect to her jaw, hands pushing her back to the bed where she crashes with a body. Eyes rack up and down her face and the expression turns serious once again. She prepares herself for the income question.

 

 "Are you okay?"

 

 She nods, smiling weakly. "Yeah," she says, her ear picking up her own shaky voice, "just tired, that's all. You have an insane amount of stamina apparently."

 

 She doesn't smirk at the remark as she usually does, but just keeps staring seriously down at Wanda. She take a deep breath, and the brunette diverts her gaze to the ceiling behind her girlfriend's head, ready to listen a mouthful. Instead, she sighs, tiredly. She gazes at Wanda in a pensive way, and her fingers are tangled through brown, messy locks when she finally speaks.

 

 "Breakfast?"

 

 Wanda stares. The girl is gazing at her, a billion sentiments running through her eyes like usual, but Wanda's inside turns uncomfortably when she sees the glow of sadness there. She knows the girl is sad by the fact she won't talk about whatever is passing through her mind, and it makes Wanda so damn confused, because she knows she's just a really big mess inside and she doesn't want it all on her shoulders, because that freaking amazing girl really doesn't deserve that. And yet, she is hurting her anyway. She seems to have a talent to hurting people she cares about.

 

 Wansa takes a deep breath. Her gaze falls to the rest of the girl's face, the pillow marks on her cheek, eyelids low because of the sleep and her lips curled upwards gently, in a soft smile. Despite her stomach grumbling with guilty, her heart falters a little bit at the sight above her.

 

She feels as a smile tugs her lips up, involuntary. She nods.

 

"Breakfast would be good."


	12. t.s— asgardian faces were made to be punchable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony oozes heterosexual culture but my bidar always pings whenever he's on screen, sooooo here's this aou drabble with gay sexual tension, yay  
> also i completely imagined henry cavill in this, oops

 Tony Stark doesn't understand Director's Hill or even Natasha's flirty commentary (or Doctor's Cho. Or any woman's in general) about Thor. Sure, he can see why he's attractive – he himself entertained the thought when first meeting, but the god's personality and smug face just made Tony want to punch him, and not with his lips.

 

 It's when they're ass-deep in murder robots and a flying city above his head he suddenly understands them. 

 

 The blond god shows up a bit late to the party, but brings what appears to be reinforcements. The city buckles downwards when he's analyzing and making equations beneath it, and the force sends him sprawling. He looks up and panics; the city's going down alarmingly fast, and he can do nothing. 

 

 A blur makes him sweep around in the sky, and his thrusters stabilize the suit until he's no long free falling. Tony looks up, and sees something that makes him stop in the mid of the sky, jaw slack inside the helmet.

 

 There's a man holding the entire city up in the air. A red cape flows behind and around him, and F.R.I.D.A.Y zooms until Tony can see the veins bulging in his neck and temples. He grunts and stares at Tony, who's staring at him.

 

 "Put your brain to use, Tinman."

 

 Tony scoffs, already in motion, arc reactor firing up at the city's core.

 

 "A bit late to the party, aren'tcha, Superman?"

 

 The city flows from the man's hands and hangs in the air. The stranger smiles a smile that seems most like a snarl. His voice isn't a deep baritone like Thor's, but still has a booming, captivating effect Tony can't help but listen to.

 

 "I am not super, human. Neither are you."

 

 "Yeah, thanks, news flash. What are you, a newspaper?"

 

 The man frowns, tilts his head a bit to this side. 

 

 "No. I'm..." He shakes his head. His voice fades away, eyes drifting to somewhere behind Iron Man.

 

 Tony turns and is about to fire away at the robots when a sudden heat almost grazes his helmet. The robots explode.

 

 "Dude!"

 

 He turns and the stranger is smirking at him, eyes glowing a fiery, angry orange-red, fading away to normal colors. 

 

 "We are running out of time. I shall protect you."

 

 And flies off, red cape billowing. Tony can hear the distinct sounds of explosions.

 

 He wished for that suit of armor, because he honestly doesn't think he can deal with any more aliens.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 They're all in the infirmary later that day. Clint has got broken ribs and his trigger fingers are bloody from the bowstring, Steve, despiste being a super soldier, has gotten burnt arms, Natasha – somehow – seems the one who has gotten away with less injuries, and the twins are nearly having mental breakdowns.

 

 Jesus, the twins.

 

 Tony nearly didn't believed what Barton told him – that the stranger somehow was faster than the older twin and _bulletproof,_ it appears, since he quite literally shielded the sokovian from Ultron's rainfire. 

 

 Then he remembers the stranger held an entire city up in the air, and nods in acceptance.

 

 He's stuffing his face with donuts, still in the suit and sitting on a bench in the helicarrier, a flurry of activity around him, when Thor comes his way. The blond has a shit-eating grin on his face.

 

 "You've met my companion, did you not?"

 

 Tony looks at him from across his sunglasses' rim, chewing.

 

 "Superman? Yeah, it was very pleasant." He's obviously using sarcasm, and the god naturally doesn't understand it – or simply decides to ignore it.

 

 "He's not super, he's from Asgard!"

 

 "That... explains a lot, actually." Tony stops. "Wait. You don't... Shoot lasers from your eyeballs, do you?"

 

 Thor shrugs. "He's from further Asgard."

 

 Tony stares at him for a bit while before deciding to not even try. The man pushes his raybans up the nose bridge, grabs his last donut and waves it at Thor.

 

 "He's alright. Be useful to have him around."

 

 Thor grins again. "He actually likes you."

 

 Stark stops between bites. "Excuse me?"

 

 "He's good at character judging. Says you remind him of Loki." His grins turns impossibly bigger, sly, and the man can see the suggestiveness in his eyes and wriggling eyebrows, "And he used to  _really_ like Loki."

 

 Tony scoffs. "Oh, the guy who literally opened a portal for aliens to take over Earth? Thanks."

 

 "Loki was misunderstood and resentful of his Father. Porting the Scepter so close to him heightened his anger and resentment. Made it more so, that it drove him mad." Tony snaps his eyes to the stranger, a few feet apart from them, red cape trailing behind, blue clothes bringing out the blue in his eyes. "I do believe it did the same to you, didn't it?"

 

 "Sorry?"

 

 "Drove you a bit mad. You wanted a suit of armor around the world, didn't you? But you knew it was madness, never to happen. The Scepter... It has an effect on people's minds."

 

 Tony scoffs, stuffs his mouth again. "Yeah, Barton can verify you that."

 

 He stands suddenly, suit creaking. He cringes and nods to the men watching him.

 

 "Good meeting you, Super. Except I'm pretty sure I need a bath and morfine, so..." The man still stands in his way, big form taking up the whole corridor. Tony frowns. "Shoo."

 

 The man smirks. He deliberately strolls by him, shoulder against his suit, blue eyes afire.

 

 "Pleasure meeting you, Anthony Stark."

 

 Tony pretends to not hear Thor's booming laughter.

 

 Tony comes to the conclusion that he really wants to punch every Asgardian he meets.

 

 He also decides to ignore the fire down below his suit.


	13. n.r— purple, orange and red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bc i saw this one fanart of the avengers helping raise morgan and i became soft. this is fwp. fluffwithoutplot.

 It was your's and Natasha's day with the little girl. You both were exhausted – moving coud be completely nerve and physically wracking, even if all you had to do was move from one end of the street to the next. 

 

 Still, you could never say no to Tony. And you'll never say no to spending time with Morgan. The girl is a handful, sure– but it was worth to see Nat with her. She is, surprisingly, good with kids. You, on the other hand...

 

 "Morgan!" You yelled, frowning, putting her plate down at the kitchen counter. The girl didn't respond. Huffing, you called again. "Morgan!"

 

 No response again. Cursing, you weave and jump over boxes scattered across the tiny house. The door to your bedroom is closed, and when you open it, the girl's makeshift bed is empty beside your own, alone except for a tiny rabbit missing an eye.

 

 You frown, closing the door again. Standing there with your hands on the hips, you stare at the ajar door of Natasha's study. A giggle emanates from it, and you sigh. The girl had especific order to not go in there.

 

 What you encounter beyond it is exactly what you didn't expected.

 

 There she is, sitting atop the desk, tiny legs hanging and swooshing back and again, the girl humming a song she learned at school. She seems ultimately focused on–

 

 You snort.

 

 Natasha turns at the sound, left eyeshadow a deep purple and right one a bright orange. Her lipstick is red (the only color she seems to know for lipsticks), although it's half undone. Morgan tuts and grabs her chin, pulling her close again.

 

 You step closer, standing behind the redhead. Morgan is frowning and the tip of her tongue in out, and she's focusing on the blush.

 

 "You two seem to be having fun."

 

 "She's gonna let me dress her, too!"

 

 You snort again. "Is that right?"

 

 Natasha raises her eyebrows, eyes closed. "She insisted."

 

 You smile, fingers gripping the haphazardly made braid, pushing the strays hairs sitting around her face and remaking the hairstyle.

 

 "Is it done yet?" She murmured, trying not to push her lips when the girl concentrated on finishing the lipstick.

 

 "In a minute."

 

 


	14. h.o— i can feel my soul burning, feel it burning slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when your realm is one of the first to be taken over by the famously growing Asgard General and the only daughter of Odin, The All-Father, something interesting happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this contains a brief mention of rape. it's not acted on, and was not done on hela's part.

You enter the room, too lavish to be a hostage's quarters: a bed as soft as the one you've laid back at the war, with carved white wood raising high against the dark stone wall. Pots of rose and red plants sit around everywhere, blending and contrasting with the silken black-and-red coat of arms hanging from the walls as vines hang from the cracked ceiling. Candles lay around at the dark, wooden brown furniture, next to books and statuettes that decorate the room. The body of a white lion lays in front of the bed, and its fur warms your feet as you kick your boots away. A long mirror framed by bone-white wood beautifully carved rests against the wall to your right, and you stare at yourself.

 

Sighing, you start to untie the sash from your waist when someone knocks on the black wooden door. Frowning, you throw the cloth on your bed and struts to the entrance, and your breath hitches as you see who's on the other side.

 

You never thought you'd live to see Hela like that. Face ridden of any paint and clean, no horned helmet, thick, unruly black hair falling freely down her exposed shoulders and down to the black silken nightgown, barefoot. Your breath hitches not only to how she looked like, but also at the fact that after months, she had came at you.

 

You raise your eyebrows.

 

"Remembered you have a hostage?"

 

One of her own eyebrows arch, lips twitching upwards into an amusing smirk.

 

"If you were my hostage, you would be down at the dungeons and wearing absolutely nothing."

 

"So your prisoners are all naked?"

 

Hela ignores the question, and instead divert her eyes to inside the room. You step aside and the woman steps inside, leg appearing from a fend at the side of the gown. She slids a finger over a table full of papers and tips of candles, eyes trained at the writing.

 

"I heard you're fitting in... just fine."

 

Your brain clicks, and you know exactly why she was here: probably for scolding you, giving a punishment with a cut across your cheek or whatever the goddess do to punish instead of killing.

 

"In my defense," you say, closing the white-bone wooden door gently and leaning against it as you stare at the general, "that dickhead was a real bastard. He deserved to have his nose broke."

 

She raises her eyebrows at your choice of words, but says nothing as she still reads your writing. She nods, moving papers aside.

 

"Catania told me what happened between you and Gendry. He already got his punishment for touching you without permission."

 

You frown in confusion at that, pushing off the door to step closer.

 

"Wait," Hela raises her eyes to look at you, hand resting at the dark table as you frown at her, "you're actually siding with me?"

 

The woman raises her eyebrows and her eyes rolls to glance at the bed, stoic-faced as always.

 

"I am not siding with anyone. He was wrong and should not have touched you."

 

You feel something bubbling inside your chest, tightening it, and the bubble drops to your stomach and you feel your jaw clenching in anger: something about her stoic demeanor sends you atop the edge, and you don't know if she came here only to say that. She didn't even acquainted you for two whole months, for fuck's sake, and it was needed some dickhead from her army trying to force himself into you to take her attention. There had to be a meaning she kept you as a hostage, even after taking over the realm you used to live in.

 

You step closer.

 

"What if I wanted him to touch me?"

 

Now standing next to the woman, you can see her jaw locking, lips pursuing and eyes squinting lightly at your bed.

 

"He'd still be punished," her words come out low, rolling through clenched teeth, and her head turns to stare at you, pale green eyes sending a shiver down your spine, "no one touches my belongings."

 

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, your tongue feels too heavy to move, and all you can do is stare back as she turns completely and steps even closer, hand raising as to let fingertips brush over cheekbone.

 

"You'd be punished too," she murmurs, "because you're mine."

 

Goosebumps erupt through your skin. You have no idea of what's going on as of right now, but you sure as hell will not stop it. Instead, you lick your suddenly-dry lips, smirking lightly as her eyes follow the movement.

 

"That's a shame; I really liked Gendry."

 

She pursues her lips, eyes still trained on yours as you speak, and you swear you hear her growl lowly as a finger traces your bottom lip, her hand gripping your jaw just to push you against her, bodies and lips crashing. Your stomach twist pleasantly and a low moan escapes your mouth, fingers from both hands burying at the thick hair only to push the woman closer, hissing lightly when your small back hits the wood, table shaking gently. One of your hands snap to the surface to maintain your balance, and you hear the glass pot of ink shattering at the cement floor. You pay it no mind, hands grasping your thighs tightly and pushing you atop the table, soon settling as to keep them open for the body that settles between your legs.

 

A shaky sigh makes its way out as swollen lips slid down your chin to neck, teeth nibbling at your throat before a tongue dips at the hollow, and you tilt your head back as a hand covers yours at the table, your stomach twisting once again and eyes closing. You feel as her lips suck their way up to your jaw, the burning sensation of marks already forming on your skin. The hand resting at your thigh follows her lip's path, up your leg and left side, the toga fabric accompanying and raising up to your hip, where it stops because of the table.

 

The hand encircle your body only to stop at the small of your back, pushing you closer as the tip of a tongue traces your earlobe, causing your body to tremble lightly and a low moan to escape; you barely feel the smirk against your skin or hear the chuckle, but sure feels as both hands grasp your hip and push you gently off the table:

 

"C'mere." she murmurs, and you barely listen from the hazy state of mind, but let her guide you to in front of the bed, stopping behind you, fingertips brushing a few strands of hair that had fell onto your back just so to press her swollen lips against the back of your neck. Then hands at your partially exposed shoulders move gently across skin, leaving a path of goosebumps and shivers on its way, until they work together to unpin the brooches one at a time: the silken material doesn't make a sound as it hits the ground, apart from a faint click of the jewels, but neither you or Hela care about them.

 

The hands are quick to resume their travel again: down your shoulder and arms, up again; both working quickly once again to untie the knots of the toga on the back of the neck and at the right side of your torso: just like the cape, the fabric doesn't makes a thump when it flies to the floor - the only sound is Hela's breath hitching behind you, light hands passing across the lower to upper back, squeezing your shoulders lightly before fingertips dip into your column line, slowly making the way down again, shivers following the lead as a shaky sigh escapes you.

 

It's your time as your breath hitches, teeth biting lightly at your shoulder as her hands push you around and into the bed: you scurry up and to get comfortable, watching as the woman unties her own gown and letting it pool at the floor before she rests at her knees on the bed. She stops, one hand resting against the mattress to keep her balance as the other grasp your calf, squeezing gently, bottom lip being chewed on as her eyes run from your legs to your hair sprawled at the bed. Her lips quirk up in a small smile, eyes softening as they lock with yours, and she lifts your leg a little, bending as to kiss your knee, you closing your eyes when she nips at your thigh – and skip straight to your stomach. She smirks against your skin as you whimper, hips raising already.

 

She pushes them down, keeping you in place as her tongue runs a path from your stomach up to the valley of your breasts, one hand following suit and resting at your ribcages. Sighing as her lips close around yours, soft pressure making you relax back in bed - just as her hand runs up and grasps a breast in a firm grip, tight squeeze making you moan and break the kiss: Hela smirks at you, still staring at your reaction as her fingers tug at a nipple: teeth biting your lips, eyebrows furrowing and the low moan that erupts from your bobbing throat; which she kisses, sucking harshly here and there as her mouth descend to collarbones, nipping her path to the free breast – and this feeling distracts you from her other hand, previously against your hips and stomach, and you'll only pay attention to it when its fingernails scratch your abdomen.

 

Your hips raise involuntary at the feeling, and Hela's knee is soon pressing against one of them, pushing you back down and keeping your back from arching by flushing her body against yours as her swollen lips enclose a nipple, teeth scraping lightly and she lets it go, fingers tugging at the other, a throaty moan rolling off your tongue and eyes rolling back in pleasure.

 

She raises her head, abruptly, swollen lips ripping from skin only to crash against yours parted ones; her hand quickly runs down, fingers avoiding your bundle of nerves as they slid through your core, suddenly, making you whimper against her lips; your legs clench as a fingertip presses against your clit, circling her hips as to push her closer - both your moans mix when chests flush against one another, her hand being pushed flat against you.

 

Whimpers echoes through the room as the fingers run down your slit, tips pressing lightly at your entrance and teasing causing your hips to raise – a string of her name and curses follow suit as she slams the fingers inside, quitting the teasing. You grab a fistful of her hair, more feeling than hearing the moan against the skin of your neck, her mouth kissing its way down and back to your breasts. Her free hand joins the other – and it's the pumping of her fingers inside you, fingertips rubbing your clit furiously and the bite at your nipples that makes you scream her name, legs clenching and jerking, hand at her hair tightening enough to draw a grunt from the general and your voice breaks, body too tired suddenly, legs sliding off Hela's hips to the mattress as does your head, eyes dropping closed and you sigh, swollen lips caressing your jaw the last thing you feel before you pass out.


	15. b.b— and even though i sin, baby

 His fingers are cold against your skin, hand brushing the hair away from your neck to reveal sweaty skin to her lips. One hand is supporting the body weight above you, mattress dipping beneath you two, and the other sends a shiver up your spine as nails scratch from the inside of your thigh to grip tightly your waist.

 

 Finally, Bucky moves. Slowly, teasingly, lips stretching in a smirk against your skin as you whine lightly at the loss of contact and the feeling of emptiness.

 

 You almost fall when he slams back inside you; your knees buckle and your closed eyes falls open, just like your jaw. The man holds you up, though: metal arm encircles your waist as hips are slam flush against yours, the hand digging a hole in the mattress slaps against the wooden headboard for better balance. His mouth falls open too, against your earlobe, and a moan rolls off of the lips to your ears as his name rolls off your tongue with ease.

 

_"Bucky—_  Buck, ugh, fuck, fuck,  _fuck."_

 

 The next slam has your own hand slapping at the headboard, but to no avail; your balance is knocked off as he doesn't wait for you to recover, and soon your screams are muffled by the pillow, his scent filling your senses as he holds you down and pounds into you.

 


	16. c.d— i hear the birds on the summer breeze, i drive fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shitty, cramped bars sometimes can house fascinating strangers.

 Somehow, you find yourself back inside a cramped, hot place. Except this time, you don't mind it one bit.

 

 The journey from the bar to inside the woman's black mustang is a blur, and all you can remember is her lips sucking below your ear as her body had pressed you against the vehicle, hands roaming to grip your ass in a tight grasp before she had unlocked the car and ushered you inside the backseat. She only stopped to close the door and you enjoyed the view as she bent over the console on the middle, getting the radio on, some heavy bass-filled song filling your ears, familiar to you but that you made no effort of remembering. Her fingers had threaded through your locks, tugging hard and ripping a moan from you. You had felt the smirk against your lips, the taunting mutter of words blowing inside your mouth–

 

 "Like it rough, hm, baby girl?"

 

 The smell of smoke comes from her, you decide, as her lips crash against yours roughly. Your hands tug at her jacket, and somehow, she takes it off without breaking the kiss. Her own hands tug at the hem of your jeans, groaning as it doesn't comes off easily.

 

 Parting the kiss was hard, both yours and hers lipsticks smudged across each others mouth. Your hands fall to hers at your jeans, pushing them away. Carol sits up, panting, taking the opportunity to take the tight red shirt away from her body, and the view of her alabaster skin makes you fumble with the buttons on your pants. The woman groans, impatiently, and takes the jeans off your legs with graceless tugs (hours later, you'll find them tossed beneath the driver's seat).

 

 The cold metal of rings against your skin makes goosebumps appear on your flesh, as her hands roam inside your shirt. Carol smirks at that, swollen lips sucking at your throat, creating a necklace of purple and blue marks, teethmarks there and here, scattered at your shoulders and across the skin of your breasts.

 

 The next morning, you wake up with finger marks circling your throat and thighs, far from being the only marks around your body, and smoke seems to be impregnated in you for the next week.


	17. s.r+b.b— snitches get stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a mission goes wrong, but the tiny human has two super soldiers in their care.

 The broken ribs aren't what's making you desesperately pant and heave and try to get to the Quinjet soon.

 

 (it is, too, but not the main reason. It's a close second in your list.)

 

 Hand to your side, you spot him before he can spot you. Steve, broad-shouldered and tall as he is, is easy to notice. You groan and push yourself over, trying to call out to him so the blonde can help, in anyway, do _anything_ to soothe your pain even if you know he's going to scold you all the way back and up to the infirmary.

 

 But every breath is a stab in your lungs and your insides and busted knees are on complete fire and you feel your legs giving up, the ground coming up fast and then—

 

 "m'got you, doll."

 

 The metal arm sends shivers up your heated flesh and you tremble, Bucky managing to heave you up on his shoulder while still holding the rifle in the other. You can hear frantic yells and explosions and gunshots from his comms, faintly hearing Steve's voice calling out your name.

 

 Bucky grunts when he fires a burst at an HYDRA agent, kneeling behind a slab of fallen concrete.

 

 "I got her, Steve."

 

 A grunt escapes while you clutch more firmly at the ribs. A few beats passes; or it could've been minutes or hours. You're too distracted with trying to not pierce your lungs with your own bones, blocking off the fight in the background.

 

 Bucky closes in again, and the last thing you see is his grey eyes staring at you in worry.

 

 "Turn it off."

 

 You groan. Your arm swipes randomly — something is holding it down, probably one of the men draped over you. You try again, and this time you hear a faint beep that does  _not_ sound like your alarm clock _._

_"_ Stevie— Buck. Turn it off."

 

 "Hey, hey."

 

 You crack an eye open. A white ceiling stares back at you, familiar; except that one mark that vaguely resembles a cat, and you realize It's not your apartament's roof.

 

 Steve is on you in less than a minute, handing you a plastic cup full of water that you down in less than three seconds. He chuckles, elbow raising to rest at the hospital bed.

 

 Wait.

 

 "What—"

 

 The blond man sighs, hand scratching his nape. Blue eyes squeeze shut, and you notice how they're red around the edges, blonde hair tousled. A book lays forgotten on his hand.

 

 "Concussion. Broken ribs. Internal hermorrhage."

 

 You frown. Then suddenly it comes back– there's a hydra goon sneering at you, wires strapped to his suit and his thumb pushes against a detonator and he flings himself at you and you do the only thing you could think of–

 

 "Well, when you jump off a collapsing building, I guess a few broken ribs is the best you can come off with."

 

 Bucky enters the room, chewing on a Chuckles Gum and tossing Steve a candy bar. The brunette sits on the bed near you and raises his eyebrows at the wrapping paper.

 

 "What kind of blood does the author have?"

 

 Steve groans. "He's been at it since you've been admitted in here–"

 

 "Type-O!"

 

 You snort. Then gasp, and choke on your own spit. Bucky pats your back and Steve is once again handing you water. Eyes watering, you wave off the brunette. He smirks and throws the wrapping paper at the trash can in the corner of the room. His stubble is dsrker, thicker. There's bags underneath grey eyes, and his hair seems to be up in that bun fir quite sometime.

 

 "How long have i been out?"

 

 Bucky hums, spreading out at the end of the bed. "Couple o' days."

 

 You nod. It's really not surprising – up to this points, the doctors and nurses treat you, Steve and Bucky on a first-name basis. The blonde man sighs exasperately, running a hand down his face, and you prepare yourself for the tantrum.

 

 Instead, he stares at you. Blue eyes become soft and a gentle smile plays on his lips, and Steve puts his book on the corner table to sit on the bed beside you. His hand is big but extremely gentle, feather-like touches engulfing your jaw and side neck. A thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you lean in on the touch. A content sigh escapes, and you hear Buck chuckling to himself.

 

 Steve's lips finds your temple in a light touch, breath fanning over your face. Forehead to forehead, he smiles tightly.

 

 "I'm just glad you're good now."

 

 A hand sneakes behind your calf, squeezing lovingly. Bucky smiles brightly at you, eyes crinkling and saying so much more than his lips ever could.

 

 "We both are, doll."

 

 


	18. l.o— blue sheets and black hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY AM I LIKE THIS.
> 
> the requests are being written, i just... watched iw again and i mISS LOki okay

 

 

 There's something scratching your scalp.

 

 You awake a bit, birds chirping outside, and it's the sun beating on your neck rather than your face (as normally does on your bedroom) that makes you realize where you are.

 

 Hands are slipping past your hair, strands falling through fingers, tips scraping. There's a faint hum grumbling from the throat near you, and other fingertips are tapping in distraction at the base of your back. The rhythm lulls you back to the sleep-hazed fog, until the hum stops and the fingers still.

 

 "Mh. Keep doing that."

 

 Loki stirs.

 

 "Did I woke you up?"

 

 You snuggle closer to his neck. "I don't mind."

 

 He chuckles, a deep, guttural rumbling in his throat, and the movements are back. You don't know how much time passes, but the sun warming your neck is now on your back.

 

 "I love you."

 

 You can't help the smile that blooms against his neck, and Loki presses another to your forehead. "I do. I truly do. And I'm very grateful for your trust in me."

 

 You blush and make the effort of slapping his shoulder, gaining a snicker in response.

 

 "You fucking charmer."

 

 "You can bet your sweet behind I am."

 

 "Shut up."

 

 Loki sighs. "Sorry. I woke up and... you smile in your sleep, you know."

 

 "Well, I did had a pretty nice night."

 

 He snickers again, hand in your hair slipping to your cheek, thumb tipping the chin up and lips smearing kisses on top of cheeks and noses rubbing together as another hand framed your ribcage. Your lips brush tentatively, teeth nibbling affectionately on the corner of your mouth.

 

 "I love you too."

 

 Loki grins against your lips, finally locking in a gentle, soft kiss, that manages to take your breath away.

 

 His stomach grumbles, and you can't help but laugh and nibble on his pout.

 

 "How about some breakfast?"

 

 His stomach groans again.

 

 "I think that's a yes then."

 

 His pout only grows, and you disentangle from him, bringing the sheets with you as you sit up on the bed. Loki's on his front, and the smooth skin expanse dotted with scattered bites and other marks is enough to make your own skin flush. He smirks, half his face buried at the pillow, black hair messy and mixing in the dark blue sheets.

 

 "Turn around."

 

 He furrows.

 

 "What?"

 

 "Turn around, Loki. I'm not changing while you're watching."

 

 He scoffs. "Why not?"

 

 "Because I am a lady. Fucking turn around."

 

 He rolls his eyes but smiles fondly anyway, bringing the pillow up and over his face.

 

 "No peeking."

 

 "Mhm."

 

 You quickly scan the room, finding a red hoodie thrown at the foot of the bed and putting it on. Loki's still smiling when you push the pillow away, eyes closed. The smile blooms in a full grin, face brimming with happiness, when your lips find his cheek, words ghosting on skin.

 

 "I love you, you asshole."

 


End file.
